


looking for strange

by gunfever



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Gun Kink, Gun Violence, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other, not really sex oriented, objectum sexuality, this is not a serious fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 05:15:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8315302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gunfever/pseuds/gunfever
Summary: The Major gets bored and Joe obliges him with a weapons-filled excursion.





	

Life was easy now. Easy in a way it hadn’t been since the days of air conditioning and fast-food chains, since food and water weren’t things to kill one another over. Here there was water, nearly unlimited. And plants, real plants, the only ones since who knew how long ago. It’d been a very long time since the Major had laid eyes on a plant, and the first sprout that had poked through the mud had nearly brought him to tears. Kalashnikov was a man who shot people over scraps, and he had nearly sobbed over a damn plant. But, he figured, it was the first piece of the old world to come back, so who could blame him? They all missed things.

Life was easy—too easy, if such a thing could be said of the Wasteland. Moore had spent the last months amassing an army of fanatics and quelling the Wretched’s pockets of violence, but when most heralded him as a God, this was an easy task. The Major—well, he’d been so generously gifted a lead mine by his CO, they needed ammunition, and there wasn’t much else to do around here.

So day in, day out, he oversaw his Bullet Farm as it churned out the antithesis of Moore’s garden. And the stockpile built up. There weren’t as many targets as they’d thought out here, at least for now. Vague threats from a group of nomads in the mountains were concerning, sure, but they hadn’t dared take action against the new god-king.

The newly christened War Boys were restless. The Immortan—an overcompensating title if Kalashnikov ever saw one—was restless. The Bullet Farmer was restless. And his guns were most of all, he knew. They itched to be fired, the bullets clicking expectantly whenever they were loaded. The twin Colt New Frontiers especially. His glove-clad hands reached instinctively for them, fingers ghosting over the leather holsters. They loved violence more than the Farmer himself.

Shaking his head, Kalashnikov stood up from his mattress. He needed something to shoot at, someone to talk to, anything. It was hard to keep his head clear when motionless for too long. The tin-plated floor creaked slightly under him as he strode over to the door, picking up his Beretta from where it lay on the table before slamming the door open. A drive would help him focus, he decided.

And, as usual, the Bullet Farmer found himself speeding down the dusty road towards the Citadel. Damn it. No matter how much he tried to distance himself from the Colonel, he always found himself back at his side whenever he got tired of being alone. He hadn’t even taken a guard with him this trip, no, Kalashnikov worried he’d snap and shoot him before they reached the halfway point. It was shaping up to be one of those days, where his fingers ached for cold steel and his heart kept hammering at his ribs. He’d be lucky if he didn’t shoot Moore in this state.

The sky arcing overhead was clear; no dust devils or sandstorms could be seen today. The Major’s standard army Jeep rattled as he eased the gas pedal down. Coughing, the rusted vehicle started to accelerate and the Major felt a familiar energy prickle at his spine. Hot tendrils that urged him to go faster, to gun the car past the point of recklessness. Compulsions like this are probably why his guards follow him everywhere, but what the hell, he figured, and stomped hard on the gas.

The ancient vehicle lurched forwards, pushing Kalashnikov back into the driver’s seat. Wind whipped through the open vehicle with enough force to make his eyes water painfully. Feeling like he’d touched a finger to a car battery, he let out something between a cheer and a scream. The wind howled in agreement.

Oh, he couldn’t wait to get to the Citadel. To storm in, past Moore’s devoted little half-lifes, and throw open the door to his chamber, to—what, exactly? Hit him square in the mouth? Curse at him? Threaten to blow his brains out onto the sandstone floor right then and there? He’d figure it out when he got there, he decided. Anything, anything to quell the mind-crushing boredom that threatened to drive him madder than he already was.

The Jeep rumbled as Kalashnikov pulled up to a chain-link fence. War Boys, with their white clay body paint, lounged at random intervals along the perimeter. Some stood in twos or threes, others sat alone in the hot sands. Barely remembering to brake, he swerved the car parallel to the fence, throwing a cloud of dust over the two emaciated soldiers crouched there. Both of them jumped to their feet, the second staggering a little as he did so.

“Major!” one of them stuttered, coughing. “The Immortan…did he send for you? The next convoy isn’t for a few days…”

“Of course he sent for me,” Kalashnikov drawled. “I’m sure he wouldn’t take too kindly to one of his Boys doubting his commands? After all, that wouldn’t be very chrome,” he said, putting emphasis on the last word.

“Oh. Oh! Please don’t tell him. I’ll let you in right away!” The pale, scrawny kid signaled to a group farther down the fence, who began to heave open a section, just large enough for a vehicle to pass through. Heh. You say anything to these kids with the word ‘Immortan’ or ‘chrome’ or some other equally asinine phrase and they’ll follow you over a cliff, he mused. It’s a wonder no one has just strolled in and killed the Colonel yet.

Well, it wasn’t like he was complaining right now. He eased the car through the gap, then killed the engine. He gripped the chassis and jumped out, his well-worn combat boots striking the earth with a dull thud. The sun beating down on his exposed skin hardly matched the ball of heat building in his chest. Two War Boys came to escort him into the tower, but he brushed them off with a dismissive wave of his hand. He’d been here enough times to know where to go.

The Major’s footsteps echoed down the winding stone hallways, but he hardly registered the sound. The comforting clack of dozens of bullets wreathed around his form seemed to whisper to him, urging him forwards. He’d expected the place to be more bustling, more alive, but the hallways were strangely empty.

No matter. Kalashnikov had no patience for the bone-headed zealots. And he didn’t think Moore would take too kindly to a little harmless target practice anyway. Still, the silence was a little unnerving.

He hauled himself up the last flight of stairs and paused in the doorframe of this level of the tower’s labyrinth. His chest heaved; the Farm’s recent sedentary lifestyle had taken its toll. His eyes darted from door to door until he spotted the one he was looking for. This one was marked with a spray-painted flaming wheel emblem—the same one branded on the necks of Moore’s War Toys. He laughed aloud at his own joke, rolling his eyes.

Without warning, a strong force shoved him forwards against the rough wall of the passageway. Kalashnikov grunted, the gritty surface scraping his cheek as a powerful forearm pinned him there. In the relative silence, he could hear the rasp of a familiar respirator.

“Quite the entrance you made there,” Joe breathed, his mocking tone evident. “What is it this time? Still upset that I wouldn’t give you those RPGs? A War Boy threw a hissy fit and you overreacted?”

“Fuk-ushima, Moore, you insufferable bastard,” he hissed. “I can’t breathe like this. Did you gain another fifty kilos? Or is it just your ego?” The words were empty, he knew, but it still felt good to say them.

Moore eased back for a second, hesitating. In a flash, Kalashnikov pivoted and kneed him in the guts. Hard. The larger man stumbled back, spluttering, and he took the opportunity to backhand him. The sting in his knuckles failed to deter him from repeating the action. Moore staggered against the opposite wall, twin bruises blossoming on his jawline.

“Jesus Christ, Kalashnikov, cut it out! What the hell do you want?”

It took him two seconds to flip the safety on his Beretta and aim it at Joe’s head, the man in question’s eyes widening at the gesture.

“I don’t fucking know, something other than the same goddamn strip mine every second of every day!” he spat. “What do you even need this much ammunition for? We’re not doing anything here, just sitting on our asses and in your case, putting on a few extra pounds.”

Just like that, the fear in Moore’s eyes dissipated, replaced with the old glint of indignation. “All right, Major. Get that gun out of my face and we’ll talk.”

Kalashnikov reluctantly flipped the safety back on and put the weapon back in its holster, his breathing still rapid. With some amount of satisfaction he noticed Moore take a long, shaky breath and compose himself.

“As much as I hate to admit it, I,” he paused for a few seconds, “I feel the same. I can’t sit in my room forever.”

Kalashnikov nodded rapidly. “I’m losing my damn mind. Wish it was like the old days. Just the road and the constant threat of death. And that asshole Deepdog.” He fiddled with his sleeve, reminiscing. “I’m surprised it wasn’t my bullet that did it.”

The pair was silent for a few moments. Kalashnikov pinched the bridge of his nose; his head ached from where Moore had slammed it into the wall. Finally the other man broke the silence.

“To hell with safety, I guess. Let’s go do something.” And with that, he turned on his heel and walked past him towards the staircase. When Kalashnikov didn’t immediately follow, he called back to him. “Are you coming or not?”

“Where are we going?” he questioned.

“I don’t know. Does it matter? Somewhere dangerous.”

“Sure it matters,” Kalashnikov responded slowly, a wry grin creasing his features. “I need to know how many weapons to bring along for the ride.”

The respirator hid Moore’s mouth, but Kalashnikov knew an equally wide smile lay underneath. “As many as you can carry.”

A short speech to a dozen War Boys and seven (Moore had said ‘as many as he could carry) borrowed AKs later, the duo were tearing off across the dunes towards the Wall of Mountains. Kalashnikov, perched in the lancer’s seat, whooped as Moore floored the accelerator. Behind the vehicle, arches of sand sprayed from the massive tires like water. Weapons strapped to his body, the hot wind on his face, the thrill of danger—this was everything he could ask for. Briefly, he thought of the People Eater. The man would definitely disapprove of this escapade. To hell with him, then.

“Why the Mountains, Moore?” Kalashnikov fought to be heard above the wind’s roar. “Just some nomads and scavengers there, I thought.”

Joe turned his head. “Did you hear their threats last time my patrol ran into theirs? They wouldn’t do that without good reason. I thought they were mostly defenseless before. Guess that’s not the case any more.”

“Ooh. You’re saying there might be a gunfight where we’re going?” His hand went to the AK hanging from his waist. “Good.”

“We might die. This is really stupid, you know.”

“Would it even be fun otherwise?”

They were quiet after that for a time, both enjoying the sensation of careless driving. The chassis of the six-wheeled vehicle hummed gently, the soft sands barely straining the powerful engine. As the towering cliffs grew in his field of vision, Kalashnikov noticed Moore’s hand tighten slightly on the wheel. From fear or excitement, he didn’t know. He reached down to the floor of the lancer’s perch and picked up the two bandoliers piled there. He slung them over his shoulders, already heavy with the weight of weaponry. Just in case.

The terrain became rough as Joe brought the entourage close to the cliffs. Kalashnikov grabbed the rusted bars beside his seat. It wouldn’t do good to fall out before a single shot was fired. After a short time, it became impossible to traverse the jagged stones.

“We’ll have to continue on foot,” Moore commented as he stopped the car beside an outcrop. Behind them, a truckload of War Boys rolled to a half. Their excited shouts cut the air, echoing through the stones.

“Not that we were going for secrecy, Joe, but the whole Wasteland knows we’re here. You should really train your pets to heel sometime.” Kalashnikov’s tone was teasing as he dismounted the perch. Moore elected to ignore him.

The Immortan uttered a few curt orders to the rapt War Boys and strode to the Major’s side. A look passed between the two, a wordless I’ve got your back and you’ve got mine that made Kalashnikov’s heartbeat pick up ever so slightly. Moore beckoned to the Boys and started off into the mess of boulders, his Major never more than a few paces behind.

The sun had shifted several degrees in the sky before the group stopped to rest. The hundreds of vertical feet had taken their toll on all of the hikers, sweat dragging tan tracks down their clay-painted faces. Kalashnikov started to regret requesting this many guns from Moore. He adored their weight in his hands, but even this love grew thin after miles of hiking in the desert.

“I thought we’d see at least one damn person,” the larger man panted, “this far out here.” His chest heaving, he continued. “Forgot about this part of the old days.”

Kalashnikov was about to respond with another snarky comment regarding the state of the warlord’s health when something gave him pause. He raised his hand, signaling the other to be quiet. The desert silence was oppressive and tense; not even the wind dared whisper.

There! A faint metallic thrum was emanating from a rift near the entourage, the distant clanging only faintly evident. Instantly, Joe stood up from where he’d been slouched against a boulder, gesturing to the War Boys to follow. As silently as could be mustered from a group of twenty boot-clad warriors, they crept single file towards the edge of the canyon from where the sound echoed.

When he saw what was built in the rift, Kalashnikov sucked in a breath. “Guess we know now why the nomads were making those threats. They’ve got a fuku-damned fortress out here.”  
Below them, sunlight glinted off the steel plating of a three-story wall. Within it, the land was dotted with sturdy sheds interspersed with churning machinery. Figures darted between buildings hurriedly, and shouts could be heard from a number of the structures. This wasn’t some mountain village; this was a repurposed military outpost. Likely left over from before the Wars. Kalashnikov wondered how anything like this had survived.

Moore turned to him. “Well? You still up for this?”

“Are you crazy?” he hissed. Not that far from the truth, actually, but that wasn’t important. “We’re walking into a death trap. I don’t know what they’re making down there, or what kinds of defenses they have, but I guarantee you that it’s not just some tiny .410-gauge shotgun. Do you really think we’d be able—“

His voice trailed off as Joe placed a finger on his lips, shushing him. “If anyone’s good at causing a racket, it’s you, not the War Boys,” Moore commented under his breath.

Kalashnikov couldn’t muster a response. Here they were, crouched on a ledge above dozens, if not more, of hostile nomads, and the only thing they were doing was bickering like an old married couple. He knew it was childish, but he couldn’t help it—the other warlord got on his nerves in one way or another every two minutes. He could never focus when Joe was around.

Without warning, shouts erupted from down below. The Major instinctively pulled Moore behind a boulder with him as shots rang out, thudding into the earth near the group. The two stayed motionless under cover as the rattle of machine gun fire continued to cut the air. The War Boys, though most were inexperienced fighters, knew enough to scramble behind whatever structures were near.

When he’d stopped gasping for air, Joe finally spoke. “Any hit?”

Choruses of “no” and “just startled us, Immortan” came from the clusters of men around them. The gunfire had stopped, but Kalashnikov knew that more would soon follow if they didn’t move fast. His back still pressed to the rough sandstone, he unclipped one of the borrowed AKs from his belt with surprisingly steady hands. Moore had both of his Anacondas drawn—Anacondas! Who brings handguns to a raid and nothing else? Sighing, he handed the other man one of the guns slung over his shoulder. Sometimes it was hard to believe this man was a colonel once.

He pointed to a sheltered outcrop farther along the ravine’s sloping edge. “We get to there. Have some War Boys keep a steady volley of fire on the base. We get down to the opposite side, find a way in, continue the attack from inside. We’ll need some protection when we head in, though. Someone’s gonna get shot with a raid like this, and I’d rather it not be either of us.” He stood up, placing a hand on the stone for support. “We have to move fast if this is going to work.”

“Better plan than mine. Let’s do it.” Moore gestured to the other men, indicating their new location. “On my count, we run. One, two—“

Paying no heed to Joe’s commands, Kalashnikov took off in a dead sprint in the opposite direction of the War Boys. The AKs bounced against his chest as he darted behind another boulder, skidding to a stop. Moore was a few seconds behind him, dust clouds rising behind him, flanked by three pale soldiers.

“Goddamn it, Major, you’re going to get us both killed,” the larger man panted as another round of fire echoed through the canyon. Thankfully, it was directed towards the war party’s other position and not their own. It sounded like a much larger weapon this time, the sound much sharper and lower than before. Maybe a .50 cal, by his estimation. Those beauties could mow down dozens of hostiles in a few short bursts if your aim was straight. The sound alone made his pulse quicken and his chest tighten, a mix of fear and something not so easily cataloged, some deeper form of admiration.

Kalashnikov took a moment to flip the safety off on the weapon in his hands. “If I can get behind that gun you hear, I’ll end this raid single-handedly.”

“Then that’s where we’re headed once we get inside,” Moore announced. The War Boys, for their part, looked excited, even though fear flicked faintly over the face of one of the three. Even so, they nodded eagerly, their jittery hands clutching weapons like lifelines.

A pained shout from the other position told Kalashnikov that it was time to move. He rose from his crouch cautiously, his wiry body tense with anticipation. Beside him, the others did the same. He took note of an angled ledge descending into the rift, disappearing from view. It was fully exposed, but what other choice did they have? Scaling the face wouldn’t exactly be an option.

Looking over, he could see that Moore had had the same idea. He adjusted his grip on his weapon, steeling himself for the charge. He took in one last deep breath and exhaled, the tension dissipating.

The Major and the Colonel barreled towards the ledge, shoulder to shoulder, trailed by the three War Boys. Within seconds, shots rang out from the fortress, thudding into the canyon wall as the group began to head down the trail. Kalashnikov barely registered the danger as he and Moore ran full tilt along the thin path, a dizzying drop to one side and a smooth barrier to the other. The gunfire wasn’t nearly as strong as before, and Kalashnikov suspected that most of the attention was focused on the other group.

Kalashnikov cried out in pain as something that must have been a bullet grazed his left arm. Clutching his forearm, he continued to run behind Joe at the same pace. Stopping here would mean a lot more pain. He could patch himself up later if need be. First, they had a task at hand.

It took about thirty seconds to reach the canyon floor, the group piling behind a rock jutting out from the fiery sand. A quick look around told him that he was the only one who’d been hit. Rivulets of blood dripped onto the earth from his sleeve, and Kalashnikov grit his teeth. Moore’s expression instantly changed to concern. “You’re hit, Major,” he managed to bark out, while tearing off a strip of fabric from his already ripped shirt, shedding his jacket.

“No shit, Joe,” he choked out, biting back a scream as Moore wrapped the fabric around his wound, tying it tightly. The material darkened immediately. “Let’s just get this thing over with.” A burst of bullets nearby served to accentuate his statement. “I don’t know how long the other group will be able to hold up under this kind of attack.”

As soon as the strip of cloth was secured around his arm, Kalashnikov hefted the AK up to his shoulder, taking aim at a tower along the steel wall. Within, a shadowed figure could be seen. He exhaled, pulling the trigger as his chest stilled. The figure jerked and collapsed, the gunfire ceasing. With a few seconds of silence, the Major led the group to another boulder closer to the wall. Trying and failing to catch his breath, he listened intently to the exchange of fire on the other side of the base. Clearly the War Boys were putting up quite the fight, the bursts of sound frequent and extended. Good. Most of the fighters must be concentrated there.  
As the sand around them jumped up, lead slamming into the earth, he whirled around and fired at the same tower. This he was good at, barely taking the time to aim and still never missing a shot. The kickback of the weapon in his hands was a familiar stimulant. Kalashnikov found that he wasn’t afraid any more.

Moore, apparently stirred into action as well, shouted something unintelligible to the three soldiers accompanying them, who responded with equal vigor. Although he didn’t catch the words, the Major guessed it was something to do with Joe’s “Valhalla” the War Boys longed to enter. He himself despised this form of coercion, but the Boys did make good soldiers, so who was he to complain? Better them than him.

He rounded the boulder, clutching the gun to his chest as he dashed towards the steel barrier, just a few steps behind the last of the Boys. They closed the short distance to the wall in a number of steps. Not taking the time to slow down, he slammed into the wall shoulder-first, sending jolts of pain up his arm. It was impossible to see over the wall from this position. If they didn’t get over the wall very soon, someone with a gun—or a flamethrower—could lean over the side and that would be it for all of them.

Two of the War Boys, however, had thought of a solution. One of them had hoisted the other onto his shoulders, the upper one grasping the lip of the wall. Moore, taller than either of them, stepped in to give the soldier a push upwards. The man had just clambered over the top when he shouted in surprise, stumbling out of view for a moment. A second later, he toppled back to their side, grappling with a black-clad fighter. Joe, startled, fumbled for a grip on his gun. He hadn’t even slipped a finger around the trigger when Kalashnikov fired a single shot into the hostile’s chest.

“I’ve got to do everything for you around here, don’t I?” he mock sighed, hardly making an attempt to appear exasperated. This was the most fun he’d had in a long time—since the raid on the Citadel, it would seem.

Joe shook his head in disbelief. “You’re one crazy son of a bitch, you know.”

“Love you too, Moore,” he said, and realized halfway through saying it that he meant it.

A call from the War Boy, who’d managed to climb the wall again, snapped him out of his reverie. The man pulled up the other two Boys, with Kalashnikov and Joe the last ones up. He tried to ignore the sting in his arm as the strong, pale arms hefted him over the edge. Once he had both feet on the surface, he took a moment to survey the outpost. Up close, it was noticeably smaller. Although smoke rose from the chimneys of several buildings, no people were in sight. Most, if not all, of the fighters must be preoccupied with the War Boys’ assault from above.

He spotted a taller tower on the other side of the encampment. If any place were to harbor a fifty, that would be it, he reasoned. He leapt off the structure into the base’s grounds, boots impacting heavily with the packed earth. All but one of the group had joined him when the next round of shots rang out nearby. The soldier atop the wall staggered, red blossoming across his chest, and toppled to the ground at their feet. Not half a second had passed before Kalashnikov returned fire, a cry letting him know he hadn’t missed. One of the others dropped to a crouch, reaching for the fallen man, but Moore stepped to stop him.

“He’s beyond help,” he rasped through the respirator. When the War Boy failed to look convinced, he continued. “He is gone to Valhalla now, chrome and immortal. Perhaps one day you will join him.”

Kalashnikov couldn’t stand this godhood crap, but Joe really could be charismatic sometimes. “Moore. I’m heading to the tower. Join me when you’re done baby-talking your pets,” he said, turning away to hide a smile that threatened to cross his face. This man spoke to his soldiers like he was reading from a comic sometimes, one of those blood-and-tits types he knew Joe would’ve read. He was surprised survivors from the old world took him seriously.

He began jogging towards the tower, the clink of bandoliers against his sides drowned out by the din. A number of shacks provided cover from the source of the noise, the group ducking around corners and crouching behind crates whenever possible. Almost without thought, Kalashnikov switched out the AK’s magazine, the movement muscle memory for him. Briefly he regretted carrying more than two weapons this large—what did he think he’d use them for?—but decided he felt better behind their steel framework. A mental bulletproof vest, he figured. He fired better when he felt safe.

Well, he’d take all the luck he could get. The tower, now only a few yards away, was likely full of fighters. He paused, back against the last wall between him and the structure. He unclipped another weapon from his harness. Even with a wound like this, he could hold an AK in either hand without issue.

Moore crouched beside him, shakily switching out the magazine on his own gun. Thankfully, Kalashnikov noticed, Moore never used flush cartridges—he couldn’t keep his hands steady if he tried, and he’d get shot while reloading.

“You’d better not be joking about ending this siege with that gun, Major,” Joe rasped. “It’s about time we got the hell out of here.”

Scared, huh. Not like Kalashnikov could really blame him. He double-checked that the safety was off of both the guns before signaling to Moore. It was time to finish this.

He turned the corner and immediately closed the gap between him and the tower, the roar of a powerful weapon starting up within a moment. Whoever was manning the .50 cal was a terrible shot, he could tell, the oversized bullets impacting in an arc behind him as he ran for a bolted door at its base. Pity. The poor girl must’ve never had a proper handler. Moore and the others were quick to follow, and they were almost to the entrance when the last War Boy, a few feet behind, cried out and tripped, one calf nearly torn through.

“Axle!” the other one cried out, rushing from relative safety to the injured one’s side. His mumbled pleas as he tugged at the other’s sleeve were silenced as he was flattened to the ground by another few shots. Kalashnikov barely blinked at this development and instead fired a couple rounds at the rusted deadbolt, sawing through it like wood. Just the two of them left now.

Moore slammed into the door chest-first, throwing it open. Kalashnikov took the lead into the dimly lit stairwell, both barrels aimed forwards. Almost immediately another black-robed figure leapt into view from somewhere up the staircase, pistol drawn. Kalashnikov fired first, the figure falling to the steps. The pair had barely taken a few more steps before another, smaller enemy hurled themselves screaming towards them. Thrown off guard, Kalashnikov froze for an instant, and was surprised when Moore felled the attacker with a swift punch to the face. The thin warrior collapsed to the ground, moaning, and the Major fired a single shot to the assailant’s head. Best not to waste time right now.

The pair finished the climb and rounded the last corner, the windowed room flooded with light. The noise was deafening now, both of them directly behind a final figure manning the machine gun. Spent shells clanked to the floor, littering it with glittering metal. The punctuated roar buzzed in Kalashnikov’s skull as though he was on some kind of a drug. He paused for a few moments, basking in the feeling. His teeth felt like they were rattling.

Joe rolled his eyes, unable to tease the Major above this kind of noise. Instead, he drew one of his pistols and fired it at the gunner. Immediately, the electrifying noise stopped.  
“Damn it, Major. Stop fantasizing and start shooting. They’ll be on our asses soon otherwise,” the larger man grunted, the respirator not quite hiding the smile that lit up his eyes.

Kalashnikov didn’t need any more prompting. He stepped over the body on the floor, positioning himself to where he could both comfortably reach the trigger and aim this oversized beast of a gun. Looking down the sights, he took aim at a line of people clustered along the opposite fortress wall, and pulled the trigger.

The gun jerked to life in his grasp. The sound was like nothing else he’d experienced, humming through his limbs, steadying his aim as the hostiles began to fall. His heart raced. Now this, this was what he was built for.

And fuck, if this wasn’t the greatest thing he’d done in a long while. His body pressed against an absolutely stunning .50 cal, a line of completely defenseless enemies on the wrong end of his gun, his favorite warlord standing a little too close to him to be professional—if he died now, he’d be okay with that, he thought. The sun sure as hell wasn’t the only thing making him heat up right now.

Thank God for that steel plating hung from his belt he insisted on wearing. Joe’d never let him hear the end of this one.

The world narrowed down to just sound and fury, Kalashnikov hardly noticed the number of dead steadily rising and rising. The only thing he could process was the deafening thrum of his new favorite weapon and his finger hot on the trigger. Faintly, he realized he was shouting.  
How much time had passed before the last bullet flew, he couldn’t tell. Seconds? Hours? Gradually, the rest of the world pulled back into focus. The Major took his hand off the gun, listening intently for the sound of remaining enemy fire. The canyon was dead silent, save for his ragged breaths. Turning around, Joe was breathing heavily too, his eyes wide as he gazed admiringly at Kalashnikov. The Major held his gaze, still leaning back against the warm barrel of the .50 cal.

Joe broke the silence first. “You…you’re one hell of a shot, Kalashnikov,” he finished. “That was some impressive shooting.”

“And the desert is hot. Interesting insight you’ve provided, Moore,” he responded, his voice strangely breathless.

“That’s not really what I meant to say,” Joe intercut, the space between the two of them suddenly seeming very small. “I…” Moore trailed off, lost for words. He crossed his arms over his chest, not quite meeting the Major’s eyes.

“I swear to god I’ll shoot you in the nuts if you keep acting like a damn child, Moore,” he supplied, mirth evident in his smirk. “You what?”

A quiet stretched out until Joe burst out, “Fucking hell, Kalashnikov! That was hot! That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve seen in months, and I’ve scoured the whole damn Wasteland for anyone even remotely nice-looking left!” He breathed in. “Well, not just hot. I mean, that was gorgeous—what you just did there—you shoulda seen it--

Kalashnikov stepped closer to Moore, leaned in, and planted a kiss right on his respirator. That should shut him up. Not to his surprise, Joe froze midsentence, eyes going somehow wider than before.

He stepped back. “You mean all of that?”

“Sure,” Joe coughed, trying and failing to mask his higher-than-normal voice.

The Major smiled. “I’ll be damned. Joe Moore acts like a goddamn schoolgirl but gets off on watching his second-in-command kill people en masse.” His smile stretched into a worryingly feral grin.

“Don’t be like that, Major,” Joe replied.

“I’m not. Just stating the obvious. Not some kind of personal insult or something; just look at me for chrissake. You think I’m one to judge?” He stroked the cooling barrel of the machine gun a final time before turning back towards the staircase. “Just saying. Wouldn’t mind too much if we took some time driving back to the Citadel. Someone’s got to head back to get more War Boys while the rest keep watch, after all. There’s not a chance in hell they’d notice an extra hour—or five,” he shot over his shoulder as they descended.

He didn’t have to look to know Moore had frozen in place again.

 

The People Eater screamed at them for a solid two hours when they did finally get back. His mood improved three days later when Moore gifted him a shiny new gas tanker with a curious military insignia engraved on the side.

If he’d thought that raid was the best day that year, the Bullet Farmer changed his mind the day a package showed up at the Farm. Straight from the Immortan, said the awe-struck Boy who handed it to him. Kalashnikov nearly died when he discovered two Heckler & Koch MP5K-PDWs carefully wrapped in black cloth inside. Twins, perfectly polished, looking for all the world like they’d never once been fired. He fell in love instantly.

He’d thought that Joe’s haul had been limited to a number of armored vehicles, redecorated by his fanatical followers. Flaming steering wheel emblems adorned grills and hubs wherever he looked. The biggest affront to his remaining sanity came some time later, when Kalashnikov was awakened by the sound of—was that a guitar riff? He found himself staring down a military convoy vehicle covered in a frankly ridiculous number of speakers. Dangling from the front of this monstrosity was a man in red, strumming enthusiastically on the most hideous guitar the Farmer had seen in his life. Dear God, the noise had barely started and he already had a headache.

Moore would be the death of him one day, he thought.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the KMFDM song of the same name.  
> Thanks to the lovely @graveparty for beta-ing!


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